


He would always win the fight

by tuesdaycoming



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Blink and you'll miss it- Hamid, Cleaning, Dubious Consent, F/M, Incest, Mild Blood, Mind Games, Vaginal Fingering, another other london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaycoming/pseuds/tuesdaycoming
Summary: Barret doesn’t make her wait long to be acknowledged. It might be fear of blood dripping onto his floor that perks him, but that’s mostly dried in the time it took Sasha to make her way back from the far side of Other London without being seen. “Sasha,” his smile is pleasant as she steps into the light, “Tell me, how did it go?”Please head the tags
Relationships: Barret Racket/Sasha Racket
Comments: 15
Kudos: 20
Collections: Another Other London





	He would always win the fight

**Author's Note:**

> Sasha is of age, but reference is made to previous contact between her and Barret. 
> 
> Title from "Bang Bang" by Nancy Sinatra
> 
> This is in the loose Another Other London au. (thank you Rome)

It’s a privilege. 

Sasha doesn’t have to knock when she steps inside Barret’s office. Her legs are long enough now to cross the space without needing to jump to avoid the creaking floorboard he keeps in disrepair, and the next, built to catch anyone avoiding the first. When Sasha slips in, she’s silent, but she has no doubt he knows exactly where she is despite not looking up from his desk. There is a single shadowed corner in the office. A lantern hook hangs down from the ceiling, but she cannot remember a lantern ever resting there, does not know where in this room she would hide if one ever appeared. It does not occur to her just then that the lantern isn’t there so Barret will always know exactly where she’s hiding, but it will. 

He doesn’t make her wait long to be acknowledged. It might be fear of blood dripping onto his floor that perks him, but that’s mostly dried in the time it took Sasha to make her way back from the far side of Other London without being seen. “Sasha,” his smile is pleasant as she steps into the light, “Tell me, how did it go?” 

She’s supposed to speak. To give a report of the relevant movements, what she’s seen of their enemies while in their territory, the actions she’s taken, and what their consequences will be. Instead, Sasha pulls a pierced ear from her pocket and tosses it onto Barret’s desk where the fat red jewel still dangling from it catches the light. Her eyes flick from the gem (120 gold at market, maybe 70 to a good fence) to the muscle in his jaw that jumps when he considers whether or not to express his anger. 

Barret pulls a handkerchief from a drawer and wraps the ear up in it, sets it aside before looking Sasha over in the lamp light that doesn’t quite stretch to reach her. He tuts. “You look a mess, Sasha,” she doesn’t like her name in his mouth, the way it stretches, “take your things off. We’ll get you cleaned up.” 

“Barret—” Sasha stops when his gaze turns sharp. She doesn’t look at him when she takes her leathers off, down to a soft white shirt, just long enough to cover her thighs. It was a gift. Every hem is dark, stained splotchy brown with old blood, but it still feels too nice against her skin to think of wearing anything else. Barret raises and eyebrow, tilts his head, and Sasha shucks the shirt off as well. She would fold her clothes, doesn’t like them crumpled beside her, but she’d have to remove the daggers hidden away in her pockets to make nice corners. It’s bad enough undoing the straps that hold the blades at her ankles and the small of her back until she is well and truly bare. 

Barret pushes his chair back to give Sasha enough space between him and the desk. He doesn’t need to say anything, makes a small, approving noise when she crosses to him and sits, perched at the edge of his desk facing him. “There you are. Let me see you.” She hates orders like this. She’s already naked in front of him. There isn’t anything left for him to see, so Sasha stays still. Barret said once, a long time ago, that she looked like a doll, so still he was sure if he nudged her even a bit, she’d tip and shatter into a thousand shards of porcelain. She doesn’t think he meant it to be a nice thought, but Sasha holds it close when she’s exposed like this, the idea that if he touches her broken porcelain edges, his hands will bleed. 

“Hand me the bowl, dear.” Barret gestures to the far corner of his desk toward the deep bowl of water he placed there in anticipation of her coming. Sasha has to twist to grab it. She sets it beside her, and Barret pulls another handkerchief from his bottomless drawer of them. Sasha wonders, absently, how much they must cost him to bandy about. It would be cheaper if he got colored ones, but she thinks he must like the way the white ones stain. 

He rolls his sleeves up, just bare bit of forearm showing. If Sasha ever shivered, she would have. He dips the handkerchief in and squeezes it almost dry before he puts his hand out. Hers is already there. Flakes of dried blood transfer to his skin before being re-hydrated and wiped away. “I admit,” Barret’s voice is light as he drags the cold, wet cloth over Sasha’s goose-pimpling skin, “I’d hoped your time in higher education would teach you not to be so messy.” He holds her hand up, thumb pressed to the center of her palm so her fingers splay out, the way he would a dog’s paw to trim it’s nails, displays the dark, half cleaned rivulets of blood. “But alas. There’s just no helping you, is there, Sasha?” 

“It’s not—” 

“I give you gloves. I give you sharp blades to work with. Yet, you insist on soiling yourself.” He moves to her left hand, careful to clean between each finger. 

Sasha’s right hand is still in the air, hovering, unsure of where she’s supposed to place it when he doesn’t set it down for her. It settles, palm down on her thigh. “The gloves are nice. I like them.” Barret raises an eyebrow, glances from the pads of her fingertips to meet her eyes. “They’re, like—” she curls her right fingers in. “They’re stiff. Got to break them in.” He has to pause, fetch another handkerchief. If he wrings out the one he has, it will stain the water hopelessly, and her face and neck will just get all smudged. It’s happened before. 

“Chin down for me.” Barret wipes away the blood spattered on her cheek. “There’s a good girl.” She looks at him through her eyelashes. Coquettish— the word springs to mind in Eldarion’s voice. Sasha was always disappointing her. She thinks, can never be sure, that Barret isn’t disappointed in her, no matter her mess. He wouldn’t say she was good otherwise, and it was good of her to let the blood get on. She didn’t need to. 

Barret wraps the handkerchief around just one finger, so the fabric stretches taught over his skin. When he wipes away a splatter of blood from Sasha’s lip, she can feel the tip of his finger as a single point of warmth in the cold office. His eyes follow his hand and he lingers, just a second longer than he needs to, but it’s enough to make Sasha flush. There are so many parts of her body she can control, does control, but for all the power she has to let blood from other people, control over her own still eludes her. She’s been told it will come with time, but for now it’s just one more thing Barret is better at. 

He pulls out another clean handkerchief, and Sasha almost rolls her eyes. There’s going to be a whole pile of them; she’s not even dirty anymore. It’s just excess, the sort she’s only privy to when it’s marks in Upper London or Barret showing off. Sometimes it feels like that’s the same thing. He doesn’t wet this one. It gets passed over her face, then over her hands to dry them, then over the wiry lengths of her arms that don’t need touched, but will be anyway. 

“There we are,” Barret touches her elbow and she lifts her arm without prodding. He’s pleased. She can tell. When she was with Eldarion, Sasha was taught how to shave her underarms with fiddly, specially made blades, had been checked, arms held high, every week to make sure she was keeping it up. Barret swipes his cloth across the hair she’s let grow and tugs at it once to see Sasha twitch away. “Practically a proper woman, aren’t you?” He laughs, like it’s a joke. Maybe it is. 

Barret has to sit down for her legs. Sasha, not for the first time, sees him at her knees and thinks he looks good there, like looking into a sharpened mirror. “Are you proper, Sasha?” Barret takes her foot in both hands to draw a cloth over the sole of it before working up her calf. It’s hard to know how to answer. 

“Probably not,” she says. Her knees aren’t quite together, but she spreads them more, if only to watch Barret move so he’s sitting between them. If she moves quickly, Sasha imagines she might be able to bring her legs up around his head, hook her ankles together, and squeeze. He would probably stab her if she tried, so she doesn’t. 

Barret makes a noise that might be a laugh and looks up at Sasha. “You ought to be.” His eyes flick down between her legs, and he draws the cloth up to her thighs. “But perhaps you’re not.” The cloth trails up the inside of Sasha’s thighs, finally catching something to wipe down. “Or is this sweat?” Sasha presses her teeth together. It isn’t the sort of question she’s supposed to answer. Obvious questions were for tripping people up, making them give more than they meant to, especially when everyone knows the answer. 

The cloth is soft. Of course it would be. It’s meant for Barret to blow his nose in or wipe his brow and it wouldn’t do for the big, bad, Racket boss to break out in a rash. Sasha latches onto that thought, lets it warm her as Barret gathers the slick on her thighs and brushes at her core. The fabric has been folded over enough that the pressure from Barret’s hand doesn’t feel like proper pressure at all, but Sasha doesn’t move. She aches. 

“I—”

“Yes?” Barret lifts his head to look at her. Sasha could almost laugh at the way his pupils dilate when he has to tear his gaze away from her cunt. He gets to smile all he wants. “Look at you. Sweet as the day you came to me.” It’s a lie. She’s never been sweet. He has sweet lying in his bed right now. That’s not what he needs _her_ for, but it’s nice, for a moment, to imagine what it would be like to be sweet for him. To truly be a doll; to relax. 

Sasha startles when Barret resumes touching her and there’s no cloth in the way, just his fingers trailing up to part her folds. He laughs at the jerk of her hips, the way her hands clench on empty air at her sides. “Go on,” he says, “ask me.” 

He's never fucked her properly. Sasha thinks he wants to, that he will, if she asks him to now. She clenches her jaw. Barret's fingers still. He sinks one digit into her, slow, watching for a stutter in her breath that doesn’t come because she’s holding it. Sasha’s hands are numb. Barret makes a tsking noise when he sucks his teeth that covers the small sound of his finger coming out of her. It shines for a second in the dull light before he wipes it off with the handkerchief he’d already soiled with her wetness. Barret doesn’t put it in the little pile of bloodied handkerchiefs. He folds it without looking at Sasha into a neat square that fits just so into his shirt pocket. 

She doesn’t wait for him to brush her aside, sliding off the desk and slipping around it to pick up her discarded clothing in a bundle. The clink of two daggers hitting each other and the scratch of writing is the only sound in the room, and Sasha wants to scream. She doesn’t bother getting dressed before leaving. Barret doesn’t say anything on her way out, but when she’s leaning against the cold wood of his office door with two fingers buried inside herself and working furiously, she knows he can hear her cry out when she comes because he makes the same sound, muffled through solid oak.


End file.
